


Tales of Albuquerque

by Redrikki



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender, In Plain Sight
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Identity Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:10:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redrikki/pseuds/Redrikki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A car bombing in San Francisco lands Marshall Mary Shannon in a whole lot of hot tea or Zuko and Iroh hide out from the Flame Triad in witness protection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teaser

**San Francisco  
One Year Ago**

Our scene opens on a city street at in the early evening. The architecture is an appealing blend of fanciful Asian-inspired roof-lines and bland Western ones festooned with brightly colored signs written in a mish-mash of English and Chinese. Parked cars line the steep street waiting for someone’s parking brake to fail. Muted sounds of traffic from neighboring streets and the chatter of a thousand TVs fill the air and everything is as peaceful as a large metropolitan area ever gets.

Onto the street step two men, well, a man and a boy, really, coming out of an office building that purports to be in the import-export business. The man is a short, Asian Santa with gray hair and beard and jolly, twinkling eyes. He is soft and round and filled with a Zen-like calm even the Buddha would envy. By contrast, the boy is all hard angles and hard muscles pulled taunt over a seething mass of teenage angst constantly threatening to burst free and set the surrounding world ablaze.

“How can he possibly justify treating our people like this?” the boy rants as the two head down the sidewalk. “They’re our employees, not our slaves! They work hard for our family and deserve our respect.”

The older man nods, fishing the car keys from his pocket, and makes noises of agreement in the proper places. He cares, really, he does, just not with the intense, boundless passion the boy brings to everything from campaigns for social justice to the relative merits of pork verses duck for dinner. Frankly, it gets tiring after a while. 

“When I tell father-”

“Nephew,” the man interrupts sharply, pulling the boy back by his elbow. He understands where the boy is coming from, but he must nip this in the bud before his nephew’s tendency to act without thinking things through gets him in trouble. Again. “There is nothing Zhao does that your father does not know about and I doubt he’d listen to you anyway, considering...”

The boy wrenches his arm back, the angry flush that usually accompanied any criticism of his father spreading across his face. “You don’t know that,” he snarls, snatching the car keys from his uncle’s unresisting hand. “You don’t know anything,” he snaps and storms off. 

The man sighs and considers calling after him, but he’s almost to the car and it’s usually best to let the boy blow off some steam when he gets like this. He hears the click of the car’s remote and suddenly the world is filled with flame. The man slams into the road and for several breathless seconds it’s as though someone has hit the universal mute button. Then the sound rushes back with the babble of frantic voices and the shrieking of what seems like every car alarm in the city. 

What’s left of the car and its neighbors is nothing but smoldering wreckage. “Nephew?” The old man pulls himself to his feet and waits for the world to steady. The boy lies a few feet away. He’s not moving. 

“Nephew!” The old man runs to the boy and gathers him in his arms. His hair is smoldering and the whole left side of his face is a bloody mess. His uncle holds him close but he doesn’t wake up. “Zuko! Zuko!” 

*****

**Albuquerque, U.S. Marshall’s Office  
One Month Later**

“I never agreed to this.”

Marshall Mary Shannon sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. She can tell this is going to be one of those days. She could understand where the kid’s attitude was coming from; walking to her car in one city and waking up a month later in another with half her face melted off wouldn’t exactly fill her with good will towards men, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to be thinking fondly of the good old days when he was still unconscious. Especially not when here he was, awake and bitching, in their conference room while they broke the news that his father had tried to have him killed and that he and his uncle were now in witness protection. Good times. 

Mary might have a limited tolerance for teenage drama, but her partner has the patients of a saint. “Believe me, Mr. Wang, we do appreciate that,” Marshall says in his best I’m-from-the-government-and-I’m-here-to-help voice, “but you were in a coma and, as your legal guardian, your uncle had to make a choice.” Marshall straightened the witness protection informational packet, complete with new aliases, new life stories and all the various rules, and passed it across the table to the boy. “Once you turn eighteen it’s up to you whether you wish to remain in the program but, in the meantime, I suggest you familiarize yourself with this.” 

The kid starts to read while his uncle hovers over his shoulder. He’s been doing that since the boy woke up, treating him like a cross between a Fabergé egg and a temperamental land mine. It was making her twitchy and probably wasn’t doing the kid any favors either. The tension mounts while they wait for the boy to finish and Mary heads for the coffee pot. 

“Lee?!” the kid squawks, making Mary slosh coffee over her hand. “How am I ‘Lee’ now? I thought you’re supposed to change your _last_ name.” 

“Normally, yes,” Marshall says in placating tones as Mary slides back into her seat, trying to lick coffee off her hand. “In this case-” 

“Look,” Mary interrupts, taking a bracing gulp of caffeine, “Iroh and Zuko aren’t exactly inconspicuous, especially in combination. Keeping your last names and changing your first may be confusing at first, but it will help keep you safer in the long run.”

Lee, Zuko, whoever he is, looks mutinous, but old man Wang heads him off at the pass. “I thought you’d like Lee,” his uncle says, sounding slightly hurt that the boy isn’t a bit more appreciative that he wasn’t called Junior or Late-For-Dinner. “I’m Mushi,” he adds, his usual cheer restored. 

Mary takes another swig from her coffee to keep from laughing. Mushi. It’s like plush toy or some kind of weird puffy fish. How any grown man could pick that name for himself was a compete mystery to her. 

The kid stares incredulously at his uncle like he can’t believe it either before turning back to his informational packet. “So,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m Lee. Does this mean I’m supposed to testify or something?”

“I’m testifying,” Mushi says.

Confusion flickers across Lee’s face and it occurs to Mary that he may have missed the memo about his family’s vast criminal empire. “Against Zhao?” 

Mushi takes a deep breath and visibly braces himself for the impending explosion. “Against Ozai.”

It happens like a ship blowing up in a summer blockbuster in slow motion from a hundred different angles. The kid’s cheeks burn a hectic red and the air seems to heat up. Lee’s chair clatters to the floor as the boy surges to his feet, bombarding the room with alternating shockwaves of confusion and anger. Mary wishes she had popcorn, or possibly riot gear.

“Against dad?!” Lee yells, looming over his uncle. He waves his arms wildly like he’s trying to scoop up more oxygen for additional volume. “He’s your brother!”

Mushi sits calmly through all of this, maintaining his Zen through the storm of his nephew’s rage. “Yes, and your father,” he says, looking incredibly sad. “And he tried to have us killed.” 

*****

**_Since 1970, the Federal Witness Protection Program has relocated thousands of witnesses, some criminal, some not, to neighborhoods all across the country. Every one of those individuals shares a unique attribute distinguishing them from the rest of the general population and that is...somebody wants them dead._ **


	2. Act 1

_They say family shapes us. Nature, nurture, it gets you coming and going. First, you’ve got your genetics; grandma’s eyes, Uncle Stan’s receding hairline, all that fun stuff. Then there’s the more subtle inheritance of conditioning and expectations, actions and reactions. Next thing you know, you’re an alcoholic just like mommy or a crazy Libertarian railing against daddy’s left-wing hippy politics. Fight it all you want, no one ever escapes. We are who are families have made us._

**Albuquerque, New Mexico  
Present Day**

Mary sprawls in her comfy chair across from where her sister, Brandi, and her sister’s boyfriend, Peter, cuddle on the couch as they enjoy some post-dinner wine. Well, she and Brandi enjoy the wine, Peter enjoys some pomegranate juice, but it’s nearly the same color. The dining room table is still cluttered with plates, chopsticks and the remains of some excellent Chinese food, but Mary’s in no hurry to clean up. She’d rather have painful rectal surgery than admit it, but she’s missed this since Brandi and their mother moved out. She used to long to have her house to herself, but these days it feels like she has too many guest beds and not enough guests. 

“-Then, she opens up the trunk and says, ‘I thought it’d be bigger.’”

Brandi laughs like Peter’s story about a deal gone sideways is a whole lot funnier than it is and Mary has to smile. Ah, love. She likes him though, and not just because he set her up with her car and isn’t a cop-killing drug dealer. The truth is, he’s good for her sister. She considers the way Peter seems to bask in Brandi’s laughter. They’re good for each other. 

All laughed out, Brandi sighs, leaning her head against Peter’s shoulder. “I’ve missed this,” she says, unconsciously echoing her sister’s thoughts. 

Peter looks around the room with an air of nostalgic fondness. He always had his own apartment, but before Brandi had moved it with him he’d practically lived here. “You know, me too,” Peter agrees, slipping his pomegranate juice. “Although, I don’t remember the take-out ever being this good.”

“It wasn’t,” Mary says, refilling her wine. “A friend of mine made it. It’s his grand opening tomorrow.” Mary wags the bottle in offering and Brandi holds out her glass for a top off. It’s a Merlot, not great but decent, and they’re already half way through the bottle. 

Brandi sips and smiles lazily. As the daughter of an alcoholic she’s far from drunk but definitely feeling the effects. “When I have my grand opening,” she says, waves at her sister with her sloshing glass, “you can be first in line for a massage.” 

“Massage?” Mary asks, her face wrinkling in confusion. Brandi was still thinking about her crazy massage parlor scheme? Weren’t they done with that? “Wait, I thought you gave all your money to what’s-his-face.”

The happy, tipsy smile disappears from Brandi’s face and just like that the good mood they had going evaporates like morning fog. Her head snaps up from where she’s been leaning against the back of the couch and her eyes are narrowed. “His name,” she says, her voice icy cold, “is Scott and he’s your brother too.”

Yeah, her long-lost illegitimate half-brother with a gambling problem. They may have the same deadbeat father, but that didn’t make him family and it isn’t like they’ve never had _that_ argument before either. “Okay, whatever.” Mary pinches the bridge of her nose. This really wasn’t how she’d pictured the evening going and now she’s remembering why she was glad Brandi had moved out in the first place. “Look,” she says, placating, “I just thought no money, no massage parlor.”

Brandi takes it for the peace offering it was and they’re back down from DEFCON 1. “Well, I still have some courses to take to get my license, but then” –Brandi squeezes Peter’s hand, smiling at him like a lovesick teenager– “we’ll work something out.”

Peter smiles nervously back and that’s when it clicks. The poor sap is actually going to front her the money. Again. Because it went so well the first time. “You can not be serious!” God, is she the only adult here? 

Peter opens his mouth, no doubt to say something dumb and romantic in an attempt to justify this total waste of money, when Brandi beats him to the punch. “It’s called being supportive,” she snaps, angrily slamming her glass on the table and surging to her feet. “Maybe you should try it some time.”

Mary is up in a heartbeat, glaring at her little sister over the coffee table. Peter gently places his glass down and sits as still as possible. This isn’t his first round at the Shannon family smack-down and he knows better than to draw their attention. Some times the better part of valor is in blending with the couch cushions. 

“Support?” Mary yells. She points angrily at her sister, glass in her hand forgotten, spattering dark dots of wine across the carpet. “I am a god damn flying buttress of support. I’ve always been right behind you. Cleaning up the mess.”

Brandi takes a deep breath and pulls herself up to her full height. “And you never _once_ believed in me,” she hisses, pointing right back. They’re nose to nose now, postures and expressions a near perfect mirror. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not some helpless little kid any more. I grew up. Maybe you should try it some time.” And with that she snatches up her purse and heads for the door. 

“Squish, wait....I...” Mary calls after her but Brandi is already long gone and slamming the door behind her. 

“Ah,” Peter says awkwardly, pulling himself up from the couch. “I have to...” He gestures back to where Brandi made her grand exit and takes off after her. At least he doesn’t slam the door. 

*****

Mary and Marshall stand on the street considering the brightly colored marquee. “The Jasmine Dragon,” Marshall frowns, considering. “It’s poetic, dramatic, “ he nods thoughtfully, “I like it.”

Mary snorts. Yeah, ‘cause it’s not like a giant, flashy sign shouting Dragon of the West, come shoot me. Still, this was one of those times she was expected to say something so, before her brain can catch up with her mouth, Mary finds herself asking, “Do you think I’m a good sister?”

There is a slightly awkward pause as Marshall slowly turns from the marquee to his partner and Mary braces herself for whatever annoyingly esoteric pearls of wisdom he’s about to drop. “I think,” Marshall says slowly, “the question you have to ask yourself is, do _you_ think you’re a good sister?”

Mary groans in frustration. She can’t believe she just did that. God, what is wrong with her today? It’s not like she doesn’t know about Marshall’s patented Zen non-answers. “Gee, thanks for the fortune cookie,” she snaps, yanking the door open with a bit more force than necessary.

Walking into the Jasmine Dragon Teashop and Oriental Bakery is like stepping into heart of a candle. The place is decorated like a Chinese New Year’s parade; bright yellow walls with red accents, paper lanterns and, of course, dragons everywhere. Anywhere else, the effect would have been garish as hell, but instead it just looks festive. The mood isn’t too festive though. It’s the grand opening and, other than them, the only customer here is a guy in the corner making use of the shop’s free wifi with a cold cup of tea by his elbow.

“Marshall! Mary!” old man Mushi greets them with a smile. He’s wearing an apron that strains across his large stomach and looks like he could literally not be happier. “Welcome! Nephew,” he calls over his shoulder into the kitchen, “bring four cups of the special blend.” He gestures towards a table, inviting them to sit. 

Lee appears a second later with a tray full of stoneware teacups. He’s wearing an apron too and glares at them like it’s their fault that it’s his uncle’s dream to own a teashop. His hair’s grown out since he had joined the program and now it hangs down in his face, half obscuring his scar. He looks so miserable it’s kind of endearing. Lee grunts a greeting and plunks down their teacups like someone who still hasn’t really gotten the hang of the whole friendly customer service concept before taking a seat. 

The tea is not her mother’s Lipton’s. There are hints of ginger or maybe ginseng or gingko or one of those other Asian “G” spices. Marshall drinks it like it’s manna from heaven, his eyes half-closed in ecstasy. “Ummmm,” he practically moans, “this tea is amazing.”

Frankly, Mary thinks, it tastes like boiled leaf juice when she’d rather be drinking coffee, but she isn’t going to say it to a man who looks as radiantly happy as Mushi does right now. “The secret ingredient,” he says, wafting and inhaling the steam from his cup, “ is love.” It’s hard to believe that he was once the Dragon of the West, the Flame Triad’s most feared enforcer. Maybe it’s the apron.

The customer in the back packs up his laptop and heads on out. Lee hauls himself out of his chair with a sigh and trundles on over to clean up the table like a good little waiter. He puts the man’s cup on his tray and swipes the table a few times with the rag from his apron pocket. “Jerk stiffed me on the tip,” he grumbles, making his way back to their table. 

“Yeah, people suck,” Mary agrees. Now that they’re alone, it’s time to discuss what they’re really here for. And no, it’s not the tea. “The court date’s been moved up,” she says. “In two weeks, you’re testifying.”

Lee’s face entirely drains of color and even Mushi looks shocked. “Two weeks? I thought it would be months until the trial.”

Marshall puts down his cup of tea and breaks out his serious face. “The defense filed a motion for expedited proceedings,” he explains. “The U.S. Attorney wants to meet at the office Monday afternoon at 2:00 to review your testimony. Just to make sure you’re ready to go.”

“Oh, he’s ready to go,” Lee says angrily. “He’s got his prefect little tea shop and his perfect little life and all he had to do was stab his brother in the back.” Lee slams his tray down on the table. The other customer’s untouched cup tips and spills its cold, undrunk tea as the boy storms off toward the kitchen.

Marshall and Mary share a glance and then avoid eye contact altogether as they try not to squirm in their chairs. As awful as it sounds, watching the Wang family saga of angst and betrayal and yet more angst made her own family drama seem tame by comparison. Kind of cathartic in a really awkward sort of way. 

Mushi just sighs and tosses a few napkins on the spill. “He’s right, of course,” Mushi says sadly, sipping his tea. 

“No, he’s not,” Marshall says, his tone the pitch-perfect mix of righteous and concerned. “You’re not betraying your brother.” They all know he is, but a good Marshall must dispel any doubt that may stop their witness from testifying. Plus, Ozai betrayed Mushi first with the whole car bomb thing.

Mushi smiles tightly like a man with no illusions. “I’ve done very well for myself in Witness Protection,” he says quietly. “I had been looking for a way out, but you don’t just walk away from the Triads. This” - he gestures to encompass the tea shop, Albuquerque and the whole program- “has been a dream come true. Zuko...Zuko never had it in him for the family business, but I fear he’s not much suited for this life either. I think he may adjust better if he had something familiar-”

Mary’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is this about the Karate thing again? We’ve talked about this.” Shouted loudly about it actually. Marshall Service policy was no past activities, but it was especially true in this case since the kid had had a reputation on the competition circuit. 

“He obviously can’t participate in tournaments any more,” Mushi agrees, “but he’s been doing martial arts since he was four. It’s very important to him. The Kung Fu helps him focus, teaches him discipline and helps him make some friends who share his interests. It will also keep him from scaring away my all customers with his frowns,” Mushi chuckles, switching for serious to jocular in that effortless way he has.

Marshall smiles back. “I’ll speak to Stan about it, but I can’t make any promises.”

Mushi nods understandingly, but looks happier already. Mary and Marshall get to their feet; the tea’s good but places to go, things to do and all that. Mary pulls out her wallet, but Mushi waves her off. “Friends drink for free here,” he says like anyone else is drinking here. 

Good luck staying in business, Mary thinks, but puts her wallet away. “Well, congratulations,” she says, gesturing to the tea shop and it’s less than grand opening. “We’ll see you on Monday.” 

*****

Monday morning finds Mary at her office leaving yet another message on her sister’s voice mail while Marshall watches her from his desk, his expression equal parts amused and concerned. “Hi, this is Brandi. I can’t answer the phone right now, so leave a message after the beep.” The recording sounds just as aggressively cheerful as it did the last dozen or so times since their argument on Friday and Mary grits her teeth. Brandi could at least have had the decency to change it if she deliberately going to ignore Mary’s calls. 

“So,” she grinds out, “You’re the one who won’t answer her phone and I’m the one that needs to grow up? Yeah, ‘cause that’s real mature.” Mary is aware that her tone probably isn’t helping and takes a deep breath. “Look, just call me back, okay?”

Their supervisor, Stan, saunters over, coffee in hand, and sits on the edge of Marshall’s desk. “Is she calling her sister again?” He asks, sipping his drink. 

Marshall nods. “It’s the tenth time this morning.” They don’t even try to keep their voices down, don’t try to pretend her family’s squabbles aren’t the best thing to happen to office gossip since the invention of the water cooler. 

“And it isn’t even lunch,” Stan says, completely failing to keep the laughter out of his voice. 

Marshall’s better at it though. He has his serious face on when he says in his best concerned partner voice, “Mary, I know you’re upset, but it might be better if you just wait for Brandi to call you.”

Mary glares at her partner. Wait for Brandi? That’s a terrible idea. By the time Brandi’s ready to talk she’ll already have gotten the money out of Peter. The next thing you know it will be free massages for friends and family followed closely by financial ruin and heartbreak. Best to just nip this in the bud before Mary had to come in and clean up the mess. 

She has to admit though, her strategy clearly isn’t working. She picks up the phone again, but this time dials a different number. It’s time to try a different tactic.

The phone rings five times before he finally decides to pick up, but at least he doesn’t just consign her to voice mail. “Peter, hi,” Mary says before he can get a word in edgewise. 

At the other end of the line, Peter just sighs. “Brandi’s not talking to you,” he says. 

“Yeah, I noticed,” Mary snarks. “Look, Peter-”

“No,” Peter interrupts. He takes a deep breath and plows on. “Mary, your sister loves you and I know you love her, but this isn’t helping. The two of you have a lot of issues to work out and, frankly, I don’t want to be in the middle. Please, just...just wait for her to call,” he says and hangs up before Mary can reply. 

Marshall stares at her from his desk, disappointment in every line of his face. “Please tell me you didn’t try to drag Peter into this,” he begs while Stan just tuts and shakes his head disapproving. Mary considers shooting them, just a little, a flesh wound maybe, when her phone rings. 

“Brandi?” she says breathlessly, trying, and failing, not to sound like a teenage girl waiting from a call from her latest crush. 

The long, awkward pause makes it pretty clear it’s not her sister. “Ah, no, it’s Mushi.”

“Oh, hey Mushi,” Mary says as casually as possible, like this conversation wasn’t hugely embarrassing and highly unprofessional. “Everything ok? We still on for this afternoon or do we need to reschedule?”

“No, no, this afternoon is fine,” Mushi says sounding harried. In the background Mary can hear the clatter of teacups and the chatter of voices. Sounds like business is picking up. “Lee has been in a fight at school,” Mushi sighs, too tired to be angry. “We’re swamped here. I need someone to pick him up.”

Mary stands, reaching for her jacket across the back of her chair. “I’m on it,” she says and hangs up. She’ll pick the little delinquent up and then she’ll kill him. 

Stan and Marshall are on their feet as well, ready to mount up, ride out and deal with it. “Everything alright?” Marshall asks, reaching for his holster. 

“I think Lee Wang just got suspended.”


	3. Act 2

**Albuquerque, New Mexico  
Present Day**

Mary can feel her anger bubbling under the surface of her skin like a teapot threatening to boil over as she frog-marches a sullen, battered Lee down the locker-lined hallway. His lip is split and there are the makings of a bruise on his right cheek. Considering he’s been doing martial arts since he was four, Mary’s pretty sure it’s a case of you-should-see-the-other-guy. 

This has not been her day. Between arranging security for Mushi’s trip to testify in San Francisco next Monday and trying to keep Brandi from blowing more of Peter’s money on some pipedream, she has enough on her plate without dealing with teenage drama. The traffic from the office had been a bitch and getting a lecture from the vice-principal and guidance councilor about Lee Wang’s attitude problem was not how she had wanted to spend her lunch break. He’s been suspended for the next two weeks and right now she’s wishing they lived in a society that was okay with caning. 

She hauls him outside through the double doors and down a flight of stairs before flinging him at the passenger’s side of the car. She waits until he is buckled in before rounding on him. “What were you thinking?” She yells. 

Lee slumps petulantly in his seat. “He started it.”

“Oh, he started it,” Mary parrots back jamming her key into the ignition with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “What are you? Five?”

Slumped in his seat with his arms crossed and his fat lip, Lee looks like a textbook definition of juvenile delinquent. “It’s not my fault that Jet-”

“Unless he is an assassin sent here to _kill_ you, I officially _do not care_ about your high school bullshit,” Mary snaps as she peels out of the school parking lot. “This isn’t some show on the WB or MTV or whatever the hell you kids are watching these days. You can’t just go around punching everyone who pisses you off.” Not that Mary hasn’t been tempted to herself a time or several hundred, including a couple today, but wanting to knock someone’s block off was a far cry from actually doing it.

“I told you,” Lee says through gritted teeth, “Jet started it.” 

Mary snorts. “You be sure to tell that to the judge when you get charged with assault.” Lee opens his mouth, no doubt to repeat his new favorite phrase, but Mary just plows on right over him. “Do you know what happens if you get charged with assault, Lee?”

“Zuko,” he corrects angrily.

“What happens, _Lee,_ is that you get kicked out of the program.” Mary catches a glimpse of the kid’s face as she turns left onto Broadway Boulevard. He looks thoughtful, almost calculating. It’s quite a switch from his usual frown of perpetual angst and it sends a chill right up Mary’s spine. 

“No.” She jerks the car to the side of the road and slams on the breaks. The driver behind her honks his horn and gives her the finger as he passes, but Mary forgoes returning the gesture with interest in favor of more pressing concerns. “No, you are not getting yourself booted out of WITSEC.”

Lee stares at her for a moment, equal parts startled and guilty, before looking hurriedly away. 

Mary takes a deep, calming breath. Slamming the kid’s head into the dash might be satisfying, but it will A-undermine her point about assault and B-not even begin to solve the underlying problem. “Okay, daddy issues, I get it.” Oh, boy, did she ever. Nothing said it quite like clinging to a hidden box of letters from the bank-robbing deadbeat who ran out on your family, but they were dealing with Lee’s issues now, not hers. “But getting yourself thrown out of the program will not keep your father out of jail. All it will do is get you and your uncle killed. Do you understand?”

He’s turned away from her completely now, leaving her with just a view of the burnt, shriveled remains of his left ear under his unruly mop of dark hair. God, can he even hear with that thing? Mary grabs his chin, wrenching his head around to glare into his weird yellow-brown eyes. “Do. You. Understand.” 

He nods as best he can with his chin in her hand and she lets her eyes drill into his to make sure he gets the point for another heartbeat before she releases him. “Good.” Mary pulls back into traffic while Lee shrinks in on himself like a deflating balloon. They are silent the rest of the way back to the office. 

*****

Mushi breezes into the office 20 minutes before his appointment with the U.S. Attorney with a thermos of tea and a box of savory Asian pastries. Mary’s always been more of a donut girl, but she’s not going to turn her nose up at Mushi’s assorted box of goodies. The second it hits the desk, she’s rooting past packets wrapped in bamboo leaves and red bean paste dumplings to find the sesame balls she knows are in there.

“Did you bring any _zongzi_?” Marshall asks with a no-doubt flawless Chinese accent. Mary wouldn’t know what that was if she fell over it, but she’s willing to bet its something obscure. 

Mushi nods, holding up his thermos. “And white dragon flower tea.” 

Marshall looks like Christmas has come early as he scampers off to rinse out his mug. Mary holds hers out to Mushi. The dregs of this morning’s coffee are still at the bottom, but it’s not like she can tell one tea from another anyway. There is actual pain in Mushi’s face, but he pours her a cup anyway. 

“White dragon flower, hu?” Mary takes a sip. It tastes like tea with just a hint of stale coffee. She dips her sesame ball in it and swears Mushi whimpers. 

“It’s incredibly rare,” Marshall lectures as he presents his freshly cleaned mug for filling. “It only grows wild and the leaves are virtually indistinguishable from the deadly white jade bush.” He takes a sip and sighs like it’s the best thing he’s put in his mouth this week. “Only the flowers are different,” he continues as he fishes out one of the bamboo wrapped things from the pastry box. “They have to wait until it blooms before they can harvest.” Mary has long ceased to be impressed by Marshall’s fount-of-all-wisdom routine but Mushi’s lapping it up with chopsticks. 

“I’d like some,” Lee says from the corner where he spent the last hour quietly reading a textbook. He sounds almost subdued and Mary’s glad to see her little rant in the car had some effect. Who knows, maybe they’ll make it a whole minute before Lee calls his uncle a traitor.

“Oh, Nephew,” Mushi sighs as he reaches for the boy. Lee doesn’t quite flinch from the contact, but still Mushi lets his hand drop nonetheless. “What happened?”

“If you say ‘he started it,’ I _will_ punch you, I swear to God,” Mary threatens before he can open his mouth.

Mushi shoots Mary a quelling look and turns back to Lee. “I’m not mad,” he assures him, laying a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I understand how hard this has been for you, but I want you to know that, since Lu Ten died, I have thought of you as-” 

“Uncle,” Lee interrupts, his voice husky and pained. He looks gutted, like what his what the old man is saying is both the worst and the best thing he’s heard in his life. “Uncle,” he repeats, reaching out to clutch the man’s shoulder like a lifeline.

“Well, this is super touching and all,” Mary kills the mood like a woman pulverizing a spider with her shoe, “but we need to discuss the fact that your kid here is trying to get himself booted out of the program.” 

“What?!” Mushi whips around to stare, horrified, at Mary before rounding back on his nephew. “Why would you do that, Zuko, when so many good things are happening for us?”

“You mean when so many good things are happening for _you_ ,” Lee snarls, knocking his uncle’s hand off his shoulder. “You’ve got your tea shop and your-” he breaks off, swallowing hard and looking kind of sick. “What about me? Am I just supposed to serve tea the rest of my life with my stupid little apron and a Stepford smile?”

“No one’s asking you to,” says Marshall except, actually, they are. The faster they can get him calmed down and settled into his new life, the safer he and his uncle will be. 

“Well I can’t,” Lee yells. Mushi looks at him like he just kicked a puppy and the anger just drains out of him. “I’m sorry, Uncle, I can’t. I’m not…I can’t _be_ him for you.”

Mushi gasps, stumbling backwards like Lee just struck him and Marshall actually winces. “Christ,” Mary groans. It’s like watching a train wreck. Is this how Peter feels hanging out with her family? 

“I don’t want you to be,” says Mushi, heartbreak in his voice. He pulls the kid into an awkward, one-sided hug. “I just want you to be happy.” Mushi holds him there for a minute to let that sink in before releasing him. He still keeps his hands on the boy’s shoulders as he gazes solemnly into his face. “Tell me what you need to be happy.”

Lee takes a deep breath and pulls away. “I want to go home. I _need_ to go home. I have to see him.”

Mushi is sad, but calm. His nephew wants to run back home to the father who tried to kill them both, but the old man takes it like a trooper. “Alright.”

“Ah, no, not alright.” They were not rewarding Lee’s tantrums and endangering both their lives by taking him with them to San Francisco. “Absolutely not.”

Lee stands there with his chin up and his fists clenched like he's seriously going to fight her on this. Mushi, meanwhile, just gazes steadily at her with all the quiet dignity of an elderly dog who knows you are going to give him a bone. Mary is not a dog person. She’s not going to toss the bone. She’s not. “Come on, Marshall, back me up here.” 

“This is about closure,” Marshall announces like it’s a profound revelation and not glaringly obvious. “We’ll see what we can do.” 

Mushi beams and Lee loses his fighter’s stance. They both know they’ve won. “Fine,” Mary snaps. It’s not like the kid’s going to miss school, after all. And hey, changing all their travel reservations to accommodate an extra person will take a few more hours of her life. But its about closure, so that makes it okay. It’s not like this is a terrible idea except, oh wait, it is.


	4. Act 3

**Federal Courthouse, San Francisco  
Present Day**

The courtroom isn’t crowded, but it’s filling up. Marshall and Mushi are already seated directly behind the prosecution team when Mary escorts Lee to an isle seat three rows back. A trail isn’t a wedding but people tend to sit like it is. The seats on the prosecution side are filled with upstanding citizens in their Sunday best while the defense side is more sparsely populated by a number of dangerous, shifty-looking men and a pair of identical elderly women. 

The defense team strolls in like they’ve got this in the bag. Mary strains to catch a glimpse of the famous Ozai Wang, father of the year and all around swell guy, but he’s impossible to distinguish from the pride of impeccably dressed lawyers who surround him. One of them, a petit Asian woman, breaks away from the pack and heads towards them as the rest take their seats. Up close she looks a little young for her law degree and the second he spots her Lee stops rubbernecking his father and freezes like a deer in the headlights. 

“Why, Zuzu,” she greets him with a smirk, ignoring Mary entirely, “I’m surprised you’d show your face here.” Her gaze lights on Lee’s burn scar and her smile becomes a sneer. “Especially that face.”

Lee’s hands ball into fists in his lap. He’s shaking slightly and Mary can’t tell if it’s rage or terror. “What do you want, Azula?”

“What?” She asks coyly, hand over her heart in an I’m-deeply-wounded gesture. “Can’t a girl say hello to her big brother? Even if he is a traitor,” She snarls, dropping the little girl act. 

“I’m not a traitor!” Lee yells, bursting from his seat and attracting the attention of pretty much everyone. Mushi rises, a concerned look on his face, but Marshall pulls him back down before he can come and join the fun. 

And boy is it fun, Mary thinks as she forces Lee back into his seat. He is glaring at his sister while she smirks triumphantly. Looking between the hot teenage mess beside her and the confident land-shark looming over them, Mary has trouble believing Azula is Lee’s little sister. Apparently she’s not even sixteen and yet has managed to pull off her sharp, charcoal gray pantsuit and lipstick the color of dried blood. By all rights, she should look like a little girl playing dress up, but she doesn’t. She looks like a predator. 

“So, you’re not here to testify with Uncle Fatso?” Azula asks.

Lee slumps, staring straight ahead instead of at his scary-ass little sister. “You know I’m not.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Azula taunts, “you never did have the guts to stick around for the good parts.” 

“Good parts? I’m sorry, what?” There’s a reason Lee’s not testifying along with Uncle Fatso and that was because Mushi had sworn that his nephew didn’t have a clue about the real family business. But here he is looking scared and cagey. Apparently, Mushi is the one who’s clueless. Lee knows _exactly_ what his father is and still seems to love him anyway. It’s like looking into a particularly angsty teenage mirror. At least her father never tried to kill her.

“I…ah…” Lee fumbles, avoiding Mary’s eyes like his life depends on it. Azula, meanwhile smiles smugly and saunters off just as the bailiff announces the Honorable Judge Erskin Butterball presiding. Everyone rises dutifully and by the time they take their seats Azula has taken hers behind the defense team. She whispers something in the ear of the man in front of her as the bailiff presents Mushi with a bible. 

“Does that even work for Buddhists?” Mary muses as Mushi swears to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Lee forgets he’s supposed to be avoiding eye contact long enough to shoot her a look. It’s not exactly rich with the juicy details Mary’s looking for, but she has time to grill him later. 

Up on the stand, funny old Mushi has somehow transformed into Iroh, the Dragon of the West. The Dragon of the West does not serve tea in a ridiculous apron and a serene smile. The Dragon of the West is a dangerous man, a feared enforcer of the Flame Triad who is here to testify against his brother. He looks worried, sad and tired. Mary settles in for a long tale of murder, racketeering and arson, lots and lots of arson. She wishes she had popcorn. 

*****

The courtroom starts to clear out quickly once the judge has made his exit. The defense team pops up like they’ve got springs in their seats and Lee scrambles across Mary ‘s lap to reach them before they can make their escape. 

“Father!” Lee’s yell turns heads all over the courtroom, but the man he’s calling to waits a moment before slowly turning because what this situation needs is a little more dramatic tension. 

Ozai is Lee 15 years on. They have the same nose, same cheekbones, same mouth. Lee’s scar saves him from being pretty and the dumb little villain goatee Ozai’s rocking serves the same purpose. While Lee’s odd yellow eyes burn with passion and poorly contained emotion, his father’s are cold. 

“Well?” The man asks, impatient, like he has something better to do than head back to lock-up. 

Lee swallows hard, his hands clenching into fists. “Why?” He demands, his voice a tad hoarse, but his chin held high.

His father looks at the boy like he’s something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “You’re weak. You always were, even before I let your uncle” -he nods with his chin towards where Mushi and Marshall have come to back Lee up- “teach you the ways of tea and _failure_. 

“When I was ten, would you have..” Lee trails off. Azula looks surprised by the question but eager to hear the answer. Mushi, by contrast, looks about as confused as Mary feels. 

“To get what I wanted? In a heartbeat.” Ozai says. 

Azula looks like Christmas, or Buddha-mas or whatever, just came early. Mary figures that anything that makes little miss psycho that thrilled can’t be a good thing. Apparently Mushi agrees because he’s starting to loose his Zen-like calm.

Lee, meanwhile, rocks back like his father just popped him one. “And mom?” His voice wavers.

The triumphant smile drops from Azula’s lips like a ton of bricks and the pack of lawyers spring into action. “Ozai,” One cautions, placing a restraining hand on his client’s shoulder. Mary knows that Lee’s mother has been out of the picture for years, but she never gave it much thought. People walk out, people die in accidents and of natural causes. It would seem, however, that the dearly departed Mrs. Wang is missing for the kind of reason that makes lawyers edgy and isn’t that interesting.

Ozai shrugs off the hand and warning with the same degree of casual contempt. “She did it for _you_ ,” He snarls in a voice full of resentment and anger that never quite makes it to his face. 

Mushi decides that this has gone on enough. “Nephew,” he says, wrapping his arms around the boy’s shoulder and attempting to steer him around and away from this conversation before it can get any worse. 

It’s too little too late and Mary can see the inevitable, disastrous ending barreling down on them like an avalanche. Lee pulls free of his uncle’s restraining arms to round on his father. “Did you ever love me?” 

Mushi closes his eyes looking pained. He knows what the answer is, they all do, even Lee does deep down. Is this why he wanted to tag along? Is “no” what he needs to hear to get his head on straight or will it be a million times worse? 

“Was there ever anything to love?” Ozai asks coolly before swanning off like he kicks a dozen puppies every day before breakfast. Azula shoots her brother a triumphant smirk and scampers off after him with the distressed-looking herd of lawyers following in her wake.

“Damn,” someone drawls from the back of the courtroom, which is when Mary notices the peanut gallery. Everyone who hadn’t made it out of the courtroom before the confrontation is still standing there, watching at the train wreck that is the Wang family like it’s an episode of Jerry Springer. Some look pitying, some look disgusted, everyone looks thoroughly entertained. 

Mary’s anger propels her at the gawkers like a stampeding rhino. She couldn’t stop Lee from impaling himself on his father’s verbal barbs, but she’ll be damned if she lets these yahoos get their kick’s watching it. “What the hell, people? Does this look like a spectator sport?” 

Marshall, being Marshall, keeps his head and takes the diplomatic approach. He flashes his badge. “Federal Marshall. Could you give us the room, please?”

Everyone clears out, some outright fleeing for the exits while others take their time, attempting to surreptitiously watch Lee’s inevitable meltdown. He’s still staring at the floor, his hands clenched into fists and his breath coming in short gasps. He looks seconds away from screaming or bursting into tears. Mushi reaches for him, but leaves his hand hovering above the boy’s shoulder in case he goes off like a landmine. “Nephew? Zuko?”

He takes a deep, bracing breath and tries again. “Zuko?” He asks, laying a comforting hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Lee?”

“NO!” Lee yells and shoves his uncle away. He’s panicked, panting now like a cornered animal. Marshall reaches for him, but Lee shies away liked a startled horse and bolts from the room.


	5. Act 4

**Federal Courthouse, San Francisco  
Present Day**

By the time Mary hits the hallway Lee is nowhere in sight. There are still a handful of people lingering from the trial but after the little show in the courtroom they are all studiously avoiding eye contact. Even as Mary considers interrogating them about any hysterical teenager sightings she hears a crash from the men’s room.

Lee is standing with his back to the door when she barges in. He’s hunched over, hands on his knees, panting slightly. The trashcan lies slumped against the wall where Lee threw it, its contents, a sea of paper towels flecked with needles and a used condom, are dashed across the floor. 

“Feel better?” She asks. “Want to borrow my gun? Put a few rounds in it?”

Lee just glares. Apparently property damage is not as cathartic as you might think. “I want to testify.”

“Wait, what?” Who is this kid and what has he done with the Lee who just this morning was ranting about not being a traitor. 

“I want,” he repeats through clenched teeth, “to testify. Is it too late to do that?”

Mary considers the boy in front of her. He is simultaneously the calmest and the angriest Mary has ever seen him. It’s pretty clear that whatever brought this on is a heck of a lot more serious than the fact daddy never loved him. “Have you ever seen him commit a crime?”

Lee shakes his head.

“Okay, have you ever heard him plan a specific criminal act?” She asks just to cover her bases. Even if Azula was right and he never stuck around for the ‘good’ parts, they could still nail Ozai for conspiracy.

“No,” Lee admits. “Nothing specific.”

Mary sighs in frustration. “Then yeah, Lee, it’s a little late to testify.”

Lee’s face contorts and for a second Mary thinks he’s actually going to cry before he takes a swing at the mirror instead. It’s one of those moves that looks all cool and dramatic in the movies but in real life ends with a trip to the hospital and a bunch of stitches.

“Whoa, hey,” Mary yells, dragging him backwards before his fist can connect with the glass. “What the hell?!” 

“He killed her!” Lee shouts back, his voice breaking. He is actually crying now. Tears are streaming down the right side of his face while the burned eye is bone dry. He looks lopsided; he looks broken. “Mom got him everything he ever wanted but she did it for _me_ so he killed her.”

Christ. That’s what their little cryptic conversation was about? She is so very not prepared to deal with this. “Lee,” She says, easing him to the floor beneath the sinks. He’s sobbing in earnest, and she’s not sure how to follow up. The standard ‘there, there’ with a pat on the back clearly is not going to cut it. She’d go get Marshall or Mushi except she’s pretty sure leaving the kid alone right now is an epically bad idea.

“Never forget who you are,” he tells her, gulping back his tears and swiping at his face with his sleeve. “That’s the last thing she said to me and I don’t even know my _name_ any more. I have no idea who I am.”

Okay, identity issues. That she can work with, that she knows how to handle. “Tell me about Zuko.”

Lee frowns slightly, considering. “Dad always said Azula was born lucky and I was lucky to be born.” Somehow it doesn’t surprise Mary that Ozai told his kid that. After all, if you’re going to be an emotionally abusive bastard it helps to start early. “I had to fight for _everything_ ,” Lee continues. “Mom used to say she loved that I tried.” 

Mary nods. Sounds like Zuko’s a momma’s boy, his father’s punching back and a well intention screw-up. From what she’s seen, Lee’s angry and, despite the lack of a mother, apparently _still_ something of a momma’s boy. “So you’re a fighter,” Mary offers diplomatically.

“I used to be,” Lee grouses. 

Mary just sighs because really. They’ve been over the whole karate thing how many times now? “You ever thought about fencing?” 

Lee stares at her blankly. “What?”

“I know a guy,” Mary offers with a shrug. “Seriously, fencing, you get to stab people. Could be fun.”

Lee’s still staring at her like she’s sprouted an extra head. “Fencing,” he repeats woodenly. 

“You’re a fighter, right? There are a whole lot of ways to fight and a whole lot better things to fight for than a pat on the back from your asshole father.” Lee still looks dubious and Mary’s getting fed up. “You’ve at least got to _try_.”

That does it. If you can’t appeal to daddy issues, go for the mommy issues instead. Lee nods sharply. “I can try fencing,” he agrees. 

“Great,” Mary says, clapping him on the shoulder and hauling him to his feet. “I’ll set it up when we get home. Now, clean up this mess” –she gestures to the trash still strewn across the floor- “and let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

*****

Mary leans against the door of the hotel room. She could hear muffled voices from the room behind her where Lee and Mushi were hugging it out. She isn’t sure what, exactly, Lee is telling Mushi but no one is yelling, at least not yet. Marshall had gone to get them all some food and for now Mary was left alone with her thoughts and, more worryingly, her phone. 

The damn thing was there, in her hand, taunting her. She’s called Brandi a million times since their argument over a week ago and has yet to hear back from her. Her tactics clearly aren’t working and it’s time to try something new. Mary’s just not sure she can. 

“Oh, come on,” Mary mutters to herself. If Lee can face down his psychotic family, Mary should be able to leave her sister this one voicemail.

She takes a deep breath and hits Brandi’s number on her speed dial. She listens impatiently to the chirpy message on her sister’s voicemail and then it’s show time. “Brandi, I’m sorry.”

*****

_Family shapes you, slots you into roles in the family drama. There’s the caretaker and the screw up, the favorite and the scapegoat. We learn our place with every reminder to be more like our big brother, learn our lines with every repeated argument. Is it healthy? Probably not, but in the end it’s who we are._

Brandi sits on the couch in the apartment she shares with Peter with her phone in her hand. She stares at it for a long moment before raising it to her ear to play the message again. It’s only the fifth time she’s listened to it and she’s still trying to wrap her head around it.

“Brandi, I’m sorry.” Mary’s tinny voice says over the phone. “The massage thing is your big dream and I guess I haven’t been supportive but…Squish, I changed your diapers and I don’t…you don’t _need_ me anymore. Whatever. You’re probably just going to delete this anyway.”

The message ends and a recording prompts Brandi to save or delete it from her voicemail. She hangs up instead, placing the phone on the table and regarding it wearily like a potentially venomous insect. Brandi worries her lip. She reaches for the phone, pulls back and reaches again. “Oh, come on,” she mutters to herself and snatches it up. She punches her sister’s number. Mary picks up after the first ring. 

“Mary,” she says in a rush before her sister can get a word in, “we need to talk.” 

*****  
_We can change things though. Yeah, we’ve been typecast but tweak the delivery here, adlib a line there and it’s a whole new show. Maybe, if we’re lucky, a better one._

Lee stands with a sword in his hand at his first fencing lesson. The mesh mask and heavy canvas jacket are quite a switch from his old, lightweight karate gi and he’s already drenched with sweat. His drill partner, on the other hand, wears the heavy gear like it’s nothing. 

“Lunge,” shouts the instructor, a dusky skinned man with graying hair. 

Lee lunges forward driving the blunted point of his weapon into his drill partner’s chest. He holds the position for a moment before pulling awkwardly back to a sloppy guard position. The instructor comes and nudges Lee’s feet so his heels are in alignment and adjusts his left arm farther back behind him. 

“Again,” he commands and again Lee lunges and recovers. It’s practically perfect this time. “Good.”

****

Mushi beams at her from behind the counter as Mary ushers her sister into the warm candle heart that is the Jasmine Dragon. Even Lee manages if not exactly a welcoming smile then certainly a lessoning of his usual scowl as he looks up from the table where he is pouring tea for a pair of yuppie lovebirds. He gestures to one of the few free tables with a jerk of his head. They slip into their seats and Brandi gazes at the eye-watering decor in wonder. 

“I’ve never been here before,” Brandi says. “It’s new right?”

Mary nods. “Best tea in the city,” she tells her sister.

“Really?” Brandi asks, understandable skeptical. They haven’t been brought menus yet after all. It’s all right though; Mary can see Mushi at the counter putting together a tray with some esoteric but no doubt delicious tea and her favorite buns. He won’t even charge them. After all, friends and family drink for free here.

“Yeah,” Mary assures her with a grin. “The secret ingredient is love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my friend Mike for the image.


End file.
